Incarceration
by DDG
Summary: *TBagxBellick; AU, Slash* “You’re one of us now. Ain’t no badge or uniform sayin’ you’re our keeper anymore.”
1. Incarceration

**Title:** Incarceration  
**Character/Pairing:** T-Bag  
**Prompt:** #006. Hours  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Summary:** "You're one of us now. Ain't no badge or uniform sayin' you're our keeper anymore."  
**Author's Notes:** Pre-series. AU. Part one of a five-part story. -Also posted on Prison Break 100 and Prison Break Fic-  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Prison Break. Wish I did, but I don't.

* * *

"Hey, boss." T-Bag rapped his knuckles against the metal bars of his cell. "_Boss_," he repeated, in an irritated tone.

The C.O. stopped and turned his head toward T-Bag, his hand resting comfortably on his baton. "What is it, Bagwell?" he growled, digits tightening around the wooden truncheon when T-Bag smiled at him languidly, a serene smile that seemed to say, "I could get out of this cell at any time and _fucking kill you_."

"Can't a guy get a periodical or a, uh, newspaper up in here, hm?"

"Didn't realize you knew how to read, Bagwell."

T-Bag stuck an arm through the bars, resting the crook of it on a horizontal cylinder. "Guess you just learned somethin' then, didn't ya, boss?" T-Bag gave the C.O. a cheeky grin. "Now, uh, how 'bout that newspaper?"

"It'll come around." The C.O. continued pacing the line of cells. T-Bag retreated to his bunk and leaned his head back against the cool brick of the wall. Whistling to himself, he stared up at the pictures he'd collected over the past two years—pictures he'd stolen from his former cellmates. Pictures of family, pictures of friends, prom, graduation, birthday parties . . .

T-Bag reached out and ran a finger along a picture of his most recently deceased cellmate. He was a fun one. Such energy and exuberance. T-Bag never thought a man could scream so loud.

It took him three hours to die.

The man had shoved a knife in his own gut while T-Bag watched him. Just laid there in the middle of the cell, bleeding to death, choking, sobbing, whimpering here and there and T-Bag watched him.

"_You see what I'm doing, huh, you, you, sick freak?"_

"_Yeah, boy, I see you."_

"_I'm doing this . . . to show you . . ."_

"_I do enjoy a good show."_

"_. . . rather die than be a pedophile's bitch."_

"_Aw, ain't that sweet? Boy thinks that just because a man and another man are fuckin', it makes him gay. You homophobic, boy?"_

"_I'm not gay!"_

"_We been down this road already an' I told you, neither am I."_

"_You are! You're a sick, homosexual, freak!"_

"'_Fraid of what your friends back home would say if they knew you let another man fuck you? That you rather _enjoyed_ being fucked by another man? Think they might ostracize you?"_

"_Shut up! Shut up shut up!"_

_T-Bag nodded. "Yeah. You got a good couple hours yet, what do ya say to one last fuck, huh?"_

"_I'm not gay!"_

"_No one said you were, boy, but do you see any women 'round here? Gettin' friendly with another man doesn't mean shit in here."_

The C.O.'s had discovered his body in the morning then carted off a groggy T-Bag to the SHU, despite his protests of innocence. Warden Pope had released him back into GenPop a few hours later, after further investigation into the death had been undertaken.

He couldn't remember his name. What had it been? Mark, Martin, Marshall, Mitch, Mack. . . . T-Bag grabbed the picture and flipped it over to read what he'd written down about his last cellmate.

Marcus. That was his name. T-Bag replaced the picture as a wrinkled newspaper was tossed into his cell.

Grabbing the paper, he scanned the headlines on the front page before flipping to the inside.

"Well, now." He grinned and read a small article on page three.

Finishing with the article, he stood from his bunk and leaned against the bars, shouting to the nearest C.O. in a voice loud enough for all of GenPop to hear, "So, when was y'all gonna tell us 'bout Bellick's unfortunate run-in with the law, hm?"

The C.O. rounded on T-Bag. "Shut your fucking mouth, Bagwell!"

"Pretty dishonorable for a C.O. to get caught takin' a bribe, wouldn't ya say?"

"Yeah, pretty dishonorable!" Trokey repeated from down the row.

"Nobody wants your input, Trokey!"

"Nobody wants yours either!"

A cacophony of raucous noises was soon erupting from A-Wing and T-Bag smirked, waiting for the other cons to quiet down.

It took a little yelling from the C.O.'s, but soon A-Wing was momentarily draped in silence.

"Y'all know what the best thing is?"

"You shutting up?" someone from the third tier growled.

T-Bag ignored the convict and continued, "Bellick's serving ten years for his infractions . . ."

A C.O. stepped in front of T-Bag's cell, holding his baton threateningly.

". . . here, at Fox River." T-Bag stepped away from the bars before the C.O. did something rash. He didn't fancy a truncheon-shaped bruise so early in the morning.

The cell doors opened.

"All right, cons, line up!"

* * *

It was around this time of the year that T-Bag wished he had a cellmate—a nice, warm body sitting in such close proximity so as to keep a hold of the "protection pocket," would help maintain a certain level of heated comfort for T-Bag when he'd otherwise be freezing his ass off.

Like he was now.

The Alliance members sat in a two-foot radius around him, not nearly close enough to transfer any of their body heat to him. The word "homophobia" sprung to mind as T-Bag mused why they all avoided _physical contact_ with him. Then again, they were all huddled against _each other_ within a two-foot radius around him.

And they all certainly looked warm enough.

T-Bag sustained a shiver as a violently cold wind whipped by. He'd rather not cuddle up with one of the Alliance anyway. If he thought he was on the verge of hypothermia, he'd _demand_ one of them _relinquish_ their coat. And that's all that counted. If fear was what drove them to abstain from touching him, then it was fear that would be used to abstain from _freezing to death_.

Maybe abstain was the wrong word to describe their actions or more over, their lack of action—though not inaction, as he didn't _expect_ them to touch him.

He scrutinized the group of men around him, critical of whether or not they would want to_ indulge in touching him _and were _restraining themselves from actually doing so._

They didn't seem to be and T-Bag tried to place the correct word to describe their _lack of action_ to _keep their leader thoroughly warmed_.

He gave up after another shiver brought his teeth together in a rough chatter. His thoughts fell back onto _freezing to death_.

Hypothermia wasn't a subject he was well versed on. After all, it wasn't something you often ran into in Alabama. He was sure, though, that if his fingers started to change colors, it was a _bad sign_.

He held the lanky digits in front of his face just to make sure they were still the correct pigmentation. Relieved that he wasn't steadily becoming a rughead—extremities first, before moving onward to infect the rest of his body—he leaned back against the bench behind him and smiled when an Alliance member scurried to move his feet.

How many hours _would_ it take for his entire body to blacken, for all of the tissue to die? Maybe he could finagle some time in the prison library to find out. He'd been meaning to try for an hour or two of time on a computer, anyway.

He'd barter with one of the C.O.'s later("I've been a good boy, honestly, boss!"), for now, he was only concerned with _not_ falling victim to that devil of an ailment.

His languid scan of the yard turned up nothing interesting. John and his boys were playing their usual poker game. The rugheads were going at it on the basketball court. The Death Row fish was dispiritedly shooting hoops in his own sectioned off court. The lines for the payphones were slowly growing.

Residual silence lay over the Alliance gathered around him. Even a short way down the bleachers—where those who hadn't been nominated for "convoy duty" were sitting—there was little conversation.

"Y'all sure are _boring_ today," T-Bag stated, sitting up and leaning his elbows on his knees.

"Sorry, T," Trokey apologized from the upper left of the circle. T-Bag tilted his head in Trokey's direction—

". . . didn't realize we were here to entertain you . . ."

—before whipping it in the other, a scowl forming at the ignorant words of the newest member of the Alliance.

T-Bag slipped onto the next bench down—members of the Alliance promptly moved from his way—and slid up alongside the fish. He grabbed the fish's chin and yanked it, forcing the fish to look at him. "You best watch your mouth, boy," T-Bag spoke in a volume that caught even the attention of the Alliance members not in the direct vicinity. "Best be careful who you're badmouthing," he lilted. "Can get you killed in here."

T-Bag released the boy's chin and smiled a smile that was clearly laced with underlying intentions. "Best remember, boy, who let you in. Those rugheads woulda gobbled you up by now if it weren't for me. Now," T-Bag ran the tip of his calloused thumb along the fish's jaw line, almost tenderly, though T-Bag really wished he could run a razor blade along the smooth, pale skin there, "you gonna keep your opinions to yourself or do I have to silence them permanently?"

The fish turned away and T-Bag ran his tongue along his bottom lip.

"I'll be quiet," came the fish's almost inaudible reply, but T-Bag caught it and was satisfied—for the moment.

He moved back to his usual place and the Alliance members shifted back into their own.

The sound of a bus caught T-Bag's attention almost minutes later. He grinned, knowing that the newest fish had arrived.

* * *

T-Bag leaned his shoulders against the gritty brick and was only slightly frustrated when the rough brick caught on his shirt like a pricker bush would as he slid down it a few inches. He'd sat on the floor only an hour earlier, head leaning back slightly on the thin mattress of his bunk, and watched all the new inmates he could see from his cell—which wasn't many, to tell the truth.

He'd counted five—three on the second tier and two on the ground floor. It was too difficult to tell whether or not there were any on the third tier, but he knew there were at least ten new inmates in A-Wing.

He was mildly disappointed he remained by himself in cell sixteen but looking at the new fish, he was hopeful he could find one to get transferred in. The nights in Fox River were getting colder and he needed something to keep him warm.

T-Bag stared up at the second tier, watching one cell in particular. Cell forty-three, previously unoccupied, now home to the man who'd tormented the residents of Fox River for years. Brad Bellick, a man unanimously hated by the entire Fox River population. T-Bag could only assume Bellick had swung the empty cell because his C.O. buddies were feeling generous for their former boss.

Licking along his upper lip, T-Bag imagined all the nasty things he could do to Bellick. All the nasty things he _wanted_ to do to Bellick. All the nasty things he was _going to do_ to Bellick.

All he needed was a little time, some persuasive action, then initiative for a transfer of his new pocketholder into his cell.

Bellick would crumble and T-Bag would be there to pick up the pieces and put them back together again.

T-Bag made his way over to the cell door and rested his chin on a horizontal bar.

"Hey, Bellick."

There was a slight movement in cell forty-three, but beyond that, no response.

"Bet you still think you're better than all of us, don't you?" T-Bag grinned. "Yeah, I think you do."

"At least I'm not in here for raping children," came Bellick's sour reply. "So why don't you just shut the fuck up, Bagwell?"

T-Bag shook his head. "You ain't got the _authority_ to tell me what to do." He paused, letting the words sink in. "You're one of us now. Ain't no badge or uniform sayin' you're our keeper anymore."


	2. Proposition

**Title:** Proposition  
**Character/Pairing:** T-Bag  
**Prompt:** #007. Days  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Summary:** "It ain't over 'til I say it's over, Bellick and I ain't done with you yet."  
**Author's Notes:** Pre-series. AU. Part two of five. Sorry it's so short--I'll make up for it next chapter. Thanks to the lovely AlmostForgiven for betaing. -Also posted on Prison Break Fic and Prison Break 100-  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine -- just taking them out for a little spin.

* * *

It was days like this that made T-Bag wistful, longing to be back in Alabama where there was nary a single flake of snow. Overnight, a serene blanket of sprawling white had laid down upon Fox River penitentiary, broken only by the guards as they paced the perimeter and now by the convicts entering the yard. 

T-Bag, scowling, made for the bleachers, trailing behind the rest of the Alliance. He looked around the yard as he stepped onto the bottommost bench and a wicked grin captured his visage.

Bellick, wrapped in the standard issue dark blue jacket, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, was cautiously crossing the yard to the adjacent fence. He leaned against it sullenly, glowering at no one in particular. A C.O. stalking the fence perimeter stopped near Bellick for a moment and spoke. Bellick growled a response and elicited a reprimanding shout from the C.O.

T-Bag stepped off the bleachers and began a slow pace toward the fence as the C.O. continued his patrol. Bellick's gaze flicked in T-Bag's direction, his scowl deepening, before meandering elsewhere.

"Well now, if you ain't just the picture of jubilancy this fine mornin'." T-Bag leaned an elbow against the fence, head propped up by his thumb and forefinger, the other hand shoved deep into his pocket. "Hope you know that scowl's gettin' you nowhere—'cept closer to the beatin' you got comin'."

"You picking a fight with me, Bagwell?" Bellick grunted, irritably.

"No, no, no. You got me all wrong, _Brad_." T-Bag drew the monosyllabic name out to Bellick's chagrin. "It's not _me_ who's pickin' the fight with ya, it's everyone else."

Bellick laughed, concern nil.

T-Bag smiled. "See, I was thinkin' I was gonna stick you, soon as I possibly could, then I thought, where's the fun in that?" He paused and slowly pulled out his pocket, rubbing the material casually between his fingers before continuing, "Instead, I was thinkin', man like you needs protection, ya understand what I mean?"

"You know, _Teddy_, I was just thinking that this conversation is over." Bellick shot T-Bag a petulant glare and pushed off from the fence.

"Better one dick up your ass than three hundred, hm? Because I know I ain't the only one in here who wouldn't mind makin' you bleed."

"The conversation is over, retard."

"It ain't over 'til I say it's over, Bellick and I ain't done with you yet."

"I'm done with you, Bagwell. Fuck off."

"Them C.O. friends of yours ain't gonna protect ya forever. Gotta understand that, Bellick."

Bellick gave T-Bag one last glance before walking toward the chess boards where Westmoreland was sitting, cat huddled beneath his jacket.

"I'm just lookin' out for your best interests."

The former C.O. continued on his way, easily unconcerned with T-Bag's words.

T-Bag pushed his pocket back in and ran his tongue along his bottom lip, watching as one of Abruzzi's boys caught Bellick around the middle, another putting him in a headlock. Together, the two dragged him off while the C.O.'s were looking the other way.

T-Bag hoped that days like these would make Bellick wistful, too.


	3. Degradation

**Title:** Degradation ("Incarceration," part 3)  
**Character/Pairing:** **T-Bag**, Brad Bellick, Roy Geary; T-Bag/Bellick  
**Prompt:** #008. Weeks  
**Genre:** Slash, Pre-series, AU  
**Rating:** R  
**Word count:** 4215  
**Summary:** "'_Course you can, Brad. Just thought you might like to know that someone's watchin' your back, hm?" Bagwell nodded again and added coldly, "Because there sure is a mighty big target there these days, wouldn't you say?"_  
**Author's Notes:** Eek. S'been awhile. My apologies. Special thanks to steralizetheemo for being incredibly awesome and kicking this fic back into life.  
**Spoilers:** None  
**Warnings:** Slash, violence, blood, swearing, snark. The usual.

Three weeks into his sentence, Bellick could feel the normal tension between the other inmates escalating to dangerous levels. There were more fights, more catcalls, more jeering and racial slurs, and for the first time since the untimely end of his rather illustrious career, Bellick was finding it as simple as standing at his cell door and peering around the cellblock to find cons forging makeshift weapons, trading them, dealing them, _tooling up_.

His mind screamed _race riot_ and his body pleaded with him to keep out of it.

Which, considering it didn't matter which side he was on, he would be.

He stepped up to the mirror and stared at his reflection in aggravation, sliding his thumb along a dark purple bruise tinting the skin of his cheek. The cut above his eyebrow was scabbed, though he had trouble believing it'll stay scabbed for much longer – it'd already been opened up by another inmate three times now.

His hand trailed over his scalp, fingers brushing across the various gashes, nicks, cuts, bruises and bumps, and he smirked grimly, wondering how it's even possible he's sustained so many blows to the head without significant brain damage.

"_Oh, Bradley. You always were hard headed, dear."_

He snorts in derision and turns away from the mirror, heading back to his bunk and plopping down onto the worn mattress.

The clanging of a baton against the bars of his cell a few minutes later forced Bellick to turn his head and glare.

"Oh boy, Bellick. Heard about it on the news yesterday, but I didn't really believe it." Geary nodded in mocking satisfaction, grinning mischievously. "Who'd have thought they'd really send you to the pen you worked at. Judge must've really liked you, huh?"

"You'll be next, Geary," Bellick snorted, narrowing his eyes with a snarl twisting his lips. "And where the hell have you been for three weeks?"

"Vacation. Don't tell me you don't even remember me saying I was taking a few weeks off? Looks like you _were_ a pretty flimsy captain."

"Like I said, you'll be next. Hear Pope's really cracking down now."

"He's not going catch any wind of what I've been doing, Bellick, because I'm not going to make a simple mistake like you did."

Bellick smirked and tilted his head upward, staring emptily at the bottom of the top bunk's mattress and leaning back into the wall.

"Speaking of the warden, you talked to him lately? He tell ya how he couldn't believe one of his finest officers was taking bribes?"

"_. . . disappointed in you."_

"Not your business, Geary."

"_Can't believe the kinds of things you've been doing behind my back. And to think, I was considering putting in a recommendation for you to become_ warden_. Can only imagine what a man like yourself would do to this prison while residing over it."_

Geary slammed his baton against the metal bars again and Bellick grimaced at the resulting clang.

"_You've broken both my trust in your honesty and my faith in your integrity."_

"Course it isn't, _Bellick_." The vindictive C.O. continued on his way to aggravate the other cons.

"_You're fired, and may you never step inside another penitentiary as an officer again."_

A small twang of _pity_ and _regret_ dug their way up from the pit of his stomach and Bellick gritted his teeth in discourse. "Can't feel sorry for them," he murmured, "'cause I'm one of them, dammit. Fucking cons." He forced himself back onto his feet and sullenly leaned against the wall near the door, looking out into what he could see of the cellblock.

His eyes scanned the ground floor cells and paused momentarily.

Bagwell was leaning against the bars of his cell, arms draped through the openings and chin resting on one of the horizontal slats.

It was nothing unusual – more or less Bagwell's normal activity in the morning before count, shoving as much of his body out as he could and taunting the C.O.'s and other inmates, but he was quiet today and it seemed the rest of GenPop was quieter because of it.

Instead of his usual chatter, Bagwell was staring through slitted eyes at Bellick, eyeing him nastily with a feral grin.

Bellick matched his look with one of his own, bringing a small, all-knowing smile to the sick fuck's visage. They continued their shared glaring until the buzzer indicating the cell doors were opening sounded through the cellblock. Bagwell resolutely removed his limbs from his own door as it slid aside while Bellick cautiously stepped over the threshold and stood on the gaudy line painted down the row.

"_Back on your mark! Behind the line, convict!"_

"All right, cons! Line it up!"

He chanced a quick look in the direction of his cell neighbors and was nearly relieved to find they didn't seem to be paying him any mind today – though as his thoughts continued to swirl and he attempted to digest the upcoming race riot, he couldn't help but swallow down the terror rising up in his throat that they were all planning something to get him, and that the day of the riot might very well be his last day breathing.

It all finally sunk in a moment later and he shoved the back of his palm against his mouth in case he couldn't hold the bile back any longer.

His hand slowly dropped back to his side and with a foul, determined glare at both his cell neighbors (who were still denying him the time of the day), Bellick contented himself in resignedly deciding that if the race riot happened to be the end of him, he wouldn't be going down without a damn fight, and certainly not without a fucking bang. He'd fight until he couldn't fight anymore, until he couldn't even stand on his own two legs.

"Washington, Franklin," the C.O. checking names off his list couldn't help but stop, snicker and begin to entertain the rest of GenPop with his usual berating. Nothing but silence permeated the stagnant air in the cellblock – all the cons were waiting to see what the C.O. would provoke today, and the man's fellow C.O.'s were conducting their count quietly as he spoke.

"Let's see . . . they call you 'C-Note,' but what exactly do they call Mr. Quarter and Dollar over here?" He tapped his pen lightly against the top of his clipboard before bringing the same hand up to cradle his chin thoughtfully.

"Suppose you've got it better than Lincoln down the row, anyway. Pennies aren't worth shit."

"Neither are C.O.'s, but you're still bein' minted, ain't ya?"

The outburst from the usual suspect resulted in complete ignorance from the C.O. who'd prompted it, and a sharp, "Shut it, Bagwell!" from the C.O. matching names to convicts on the ground level.

Bellick grinned lopsidedly, remembering all the nasty things that had happened to that particular C.O. over the years. Man still managed to crack a joke even as a group prisoners were wrestling with him, trying to pin him down while he punched and kicked and bit and fought with more than everything he had.

Bellick was always amazed at the man's prowess in coming up with new material. Idiot probably went home every night and thought about what he was going to say the next morning while his wife tsked and scolded him for bringing trouble upon himself.

"Bellick." The C.O. paused, eyeing his former boss carefully with one eyebrow raised critically. "_Bellick_. Bellick, Bellick, Bellick. Now, where have I heard that name before?"

Bellick snarled. "Piss off, Shumaker."

"Oh, that's right. You're the idiot who got caught taking bribes. How could I ever forget?"

Another snarl and Shumaker sighed, checking Bellick's name off the list. "Boy, you'd think after three weeks I'd get tired of making you mad. But it doesn't get old, Bellick. Not in the least."

Fists clenched at his sides, Bellick restrained himself from tackling Shumaker as he walked away, making wisecracks to the other prisoners as he passed them. Chuckles from his left and right brought his attention away from Shumaker.

". . . does have a point, Boss Man," hissed an amused con from his right. "You are pretty fun to aggravate, you know."

Bellick gritted his teeth but made no other indication he was listening.

"_Chow time! Get your asses movin', cons!"_

"All right, move it out! Chow time!"

The words were different, but wholly the same as the ones Bellick had shouted in his twenty some years as an officer.

The cons around him made their way to the stairs, but Bellick traipsed back into his cell. He wasn't hungry.

* * *

"It's comin', Boss Man. Can ya feel it?" 

He heard the words, but they didn't mean anything. Not anymore. Not after the tenth time he'd heard them murmured maliciously and certainly not after the hundredth.

No one had tried anything in a week. He hadn't slept in three, hadn't ate much in two.

They were waiting and he didn't like it. This wasn't just a "race riot" coming up.

It was a war.

* * *

He was writing his farewell letter to Mama. 

She was living with his sister now, the ungrateful bitch who wouldn't even take Mama in when she didn't have any place else to go after her house was foreclosed on.

"_Mama, Mama, don't cry. You can live with me, Mama."_

"_I don't want to be a burden, Bradley."_

"_No, Mama, no. You won't be."_

And now that Bellick was going to be locked up for the next ten years, the bitch was left with no choice but to take Mama in.

"_This is all your fault, Brad!"_

"_She's our mother, Clare! Do you want her to die on the streets, you inconsiderate bitch?"_

"_You're the inconsiderate one! If you hadn't of been taking bribes – God! You're such a fucking idiot and you always have been!"_

He snorted and continued writing, sweeping eraser remains off the paper with the side of his hand. The letter was supposed to be short, directly to the point – but his mind was wandering and his letter wandered with it.

After the fourth page, he decided it was better not to limit himself and kept going.

At ten pages, he stopped. He set his dulled pencil down lightly, stood, and turned away from the desk.

And then he blinked, surprised.

Brows furrowed, he took a slow step forward – a cautionary warning.

"How long have you been fucking standing there?"

Bagwell sucked in his bottom lip, considering his answer carefully.

"Long enough to hear you mumblin' to yourself, I s'pose." He nodded, a playful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Who's Clare, by the way?"

Bellick shook his head and moved back to the desk, restraining his contempt from manifesting into a physical fight with Bagwell. He wouldn't allow himself to go that low, to stoop to Bagwell's level.

"Go find someone else to bother, _retard_."

Bagwell clucked his tongue dispassionately. "Aw, but I was bein' so hospitable, Brad. Comin' up here an' all, to offer you . . . assistance."

"I don't need your damn 'assistance.' I can hold my own."

"'Course you can, Brad. Just thought you might like to know that someone's watchin' your back, hm?" Bagwell nodded again and added coldly, "Because there sure is a mighty big target there these days, wouldn't you say?"

"_Better one dick up your ass than three hundred, hm? Because I know I ain't the only one in here who wouldn't mind makin' you bleed."_

Bellick spun around, ready to pound the bastard into the wall, but Bagwell was gone.

He cursed and returned to the desk, sitting down to finish his letter.

"_Them C.O. friends of yours ain't gonna protect ya forever. Gotta understand that, Bellick."_

He kneaded his knuckles into his temples before resting his head in his hands. His left elbow on the desk, he propped his head with the palm of his hand, his forehead cradled in the middle.

With his right, he picked up the pencil, ignoring the shaking of his hand as he did so, and attempted to write at least another page, because Mama deserved closure.

But he couldn't. He was royally fucked and he knew it. No amount of letter writing to console his mother could change that.

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit!"

He growled and shoved the notebook, pencil and a book that was sitting nearby off the desk. The book hit the toilet bowl and sent a dull reverberation through it. The notebook and pencil followed mere moments afterward, though causing significantly less vibration than the book had made.

"'_Course you can, Brad. Just thought you might like to know that someone's watchin' your back, hm?"_

"Bagwell," he grumbled, rubbing the sole of his palms into his eyelids. "Fucking _bastard_. Like knowing that's supposed to make me feel safe. Godfucking_dammit_!"

Wearily, he sighed and leaned over to collect the pencil and notebook.

* * *

He needed a weapon and he needed one _now_. He was running out of time. D-Day was coming and it was coming _soon_. 

The only problem was that Bellick wasn't exactly sure when "soon" was.

But the tension was about to reach its peak and when it did, Bellick didn't want to be cornered and helpless.

He _needed_ a weapon.

So he did the only thing he could think of: he grabbed his toothbrush and began grinding it on the floor, sharpening the end.

It wasn't much and it wouldn't keep the other cons off him for long, but it was better than nothing.

And though he'd never admit it, he felt safer at night with the thought of his makeshift weapon stashed within easy reach, shoved in the space between the mattress and the bed frame.

And during the day, he carried it in his sock. It was uncomfortable at first, but it didn't take him long before he found a spot where the end wouldn't stab him and he could easily ignore the weapon as he walked around.

He was becoming a regular con, no different from the rest of them.

He didn't like it, but he'd learn to live with it. He had to adapt – there were no two ways about it, because it was the only way he was ever going to survive.

* * *

"Bradley . . ." 

Her fingers trailed over his face and she cupped his chin, a mournful look encompassing her usually cheery visage.

Bellick forced his gaze elsewhere.

He couldn't look her in the eyes, hasn't been able to since the arrest.

He's afraid of seeing the _disappointment_ laden deep within her soft brown eyes, digging into him, making him feel guiltier than he already does.

So he looked away, focusing on a crack marring the table.

Her fingers forced his face and gaze upward, but his eyes closed just as soon as his sight leveled with her chin.

"I'm sorry, Mama."

He still can't match her gaze, even as visiting hours end and he's fearful of what the next day might bring.

He hugged her and she left without another word.

* * *

He chewed on his thumbnail absently, his foot tapping irritably against the concrete floor. His shank was in his pocket and half of the shoelace from his left boot was wrapped around his hand. 

Everything was quiet. The calm before the storm.

Bagwell's voice finally cut through the silence, his easy drawl calling out to a terrified Fish that Bellick had met on the bus. The Fish had pissed Bagwell off and now he was out for blood.

Bellick glanced at his watch as the digital numbers flipped over to 20:00.

The buzzer sounded, the cell doors opened and the cons stepped up to their marks.

The C.O.'s hesitated, their clipboards and pens held awkwardly. They knew. It was too eerie. Too quiet. _Something's wrong_ and it was all just a matter of time, of _when_ and _who_.

The first blow landed and a C.O. went down. A small guy that Bellick wasn't familiar with. Some nameless hack who was probably only working today because he got called in for overtime.

The other cons suddenly raged around Bellick, flying into action. Pushing, shoving, _stabbing_, throwing, tossing, _shanking_, choking, strangling . . .

Bellick backed into his cell as the shit hit the fan.

* * *

His shank lasted long enough to get three guys in the gut as they came after him before the sharpened end snapped off as he went for the fourth. 

He kicked and clawed his way out of the pile of bodies the fifth and sixth had tackled him into and escaped his now (very) cramped cell, dashing out onto the tier and finally getting a good luck at the chaos that was being wreaked.

Groans from inside his cell announced the awakening of the fifth and sixth from their short-lived nap.

Bellick was hard-pressed in what he wanted to do – run and find some place to hide, or stay and fight like a man.

His fingers squeezed around the string in his hand and he quickly unraveled it and entwined it around both hands, leaving enough length to choke somebody with.

The fifth and sixth stumbled out from his cell and Bellick charged, slamming into the fifth with a roar and wrapping the string around his neck, pulling it taut.

The con let out a gasp and Bellick backed into the concrete wall behind him, using him as a human shield while the other one advanced.

The sixth drew his shank – a rough piece of metal that hadn't gotten enough time to be properly sharpened to a fine edge.

It was dull, but it would hurt like a motherfucker if the asshole could muster enough force to shove it in.

"Come on, Boss Man," the con taunted, waving the shank tantalizingly as he took a step closer, "ain't gonna hurt ya too bad. Won't even feel it, I swear."

The fifth was struggling in Bellick's grip and he tightened his hold on the shoelace, choking off more air until the man finally stilled and Bellick was holding up dead weight.

He shoved the limp body away and it landed with a thud at the feet of the other con. His eyes flicked downward momentarily as the body landed and Bellick flew forward, tackling the con into the railing and grabbing his wrist, twisting and wrenching until the shank fell to the ground.

He kicked it off the tier before pounding his fist into the con's face and shoving him unceremoniously over the railing.

The con landed on the ground level with a sickening _crack_ and Bellick smiled.

He placed his hands on the railing and looked around. Bouts of fighting were still taking place everywhere, though the majority of them remained on the ground floor.

His gaze continued over the crowds before finding their way to Bagwell, pummeling a black inmate of significantly larger girth and stature into the concrete.

The unforgiving murderer finally stood, wiping the blood on his knuckles off onto his pants. He pulled a shank from his pocket while his eyes trailed over the upper tiers, clearly unconcerned with the fighting going on around him.

Their eyes met and Bagwell smirked up at him before slinking away and disappearing behind a wall of smoke.

The riot team had finally busted their way in, launching tear bombs and gas grenades into the cellblock and heading for the larger fights, hoping to break them up.

It wasn't much use; the inmates continued their fighting despite the haze fogging their vision and the gas stinging their eyes and noses.

The riot team was quickly pulled into the fighting and soon inmates and C.O.'s alike were falling.

Hands were at his back now, pushing gruffly and Bellick made half a turn before he was successfully shoved over the railing. His landing was padded by the body of the con he'd pushed over himself, but the sickening crack of the con's ribs snapping beneath him was enough to send him scrambling off the body.

He was wheezing and woozy as he attempted to get to his feet; the wind had been knocked out of him and the black spots dancing in his vision were making it hard to concentrate.

There was another _crack_ – louder and more metallic this time, clearly different from the sound of bone collapsing in on itself – and Bellick stumbled forward, clutching at the back of his head.

The next blow forced him backward – a steel pipe slamming into his gut and pushing all the air from his lungs. His vision swum as he hit the floor and he felt fingers grabbing at his arms and yanking, dragging him away, into a desolate corner in the blind spot of the control room and the rest of the fighting.

Someone pushed him into the wall, the pipe pressing against his Adam's apple.

He raised his hands up and grabbed the ends of the pipe, fighting against the con for singular control over the object.

Bellick choked for air in desperation, his face turning bright red as he fought the other man's grip.

His foot swung out and hit the con's kneecap. His grip loosened and Bellick wrestled the pipe away before smacking him over the back of the head with it. The pipe snapped in half and the con fell to the floor.

Bellick heaved for breath, holding the broken pipe loosely in one hand while more cons surrounded him.

He swallowed the bitter fluid at the back of his throat as he collapsed to his knees, the pipe falling from his grip and hitting the floor.

His eyes fluttered shut as a mass of revenge-focused cons converged on him and he waited for the worst.

But it never came.

There was grunting and groaning and rage filled curses all around him, but no one had shanked him yet or pounded him into a bloody heap of unidentifiable flesh and bones.

He forced his eyes open, weary and drawn from trying to keep from getting killed and found himself staring at Bagwell's blood drenched form, standing guardedly in front of him, a nasty looking shank held threateningly out to the moaning bodies stirring in agony nearby.

Bagwell was panting and there was sweat running down his arms and face despite the chill air that plagued the entire prison this time of the year.

He turned his head and Bellick noticed the mocking sneer his was giving the other cons.

"Anyone else wanna go, hm?" He laughed piteously before whirling around to confront Bellick.

"Saved your fuckin' life, you know," he leaned down to Bellick's level, a contemptuous sneer clouding his visage.

Bellick snorted. "So? You want me to tell you I'm grateful or something, you fucking prick?" He pulled his knees out from under him and fell back into the wall, eyes closed. "All you've done is prolong my stay in this fucking hell hole."

"I could've left ya to the dogs, Bellick, and I still can."

Bellick felt the tip of the dangerously sharp shank slide up against the side of his neck, drawing a thin line of blood.

"I told you I had your back, didn't I?" Bagwell's mouth was brushing against Bellick's ear as he spoke and the shank was running down his neck and along his collarbone. "And I always keep my word."

"Liar," Bellick snapped, his eyes opening as he spoke.

Bagwell pulled his mouth away from Bellick's ear and stared at him, frowning slightly.

"You sure are mouthy, aren't you?" Bagwell sucked in his lips as he thought, the shank digging deeper into Bellick's shoulder while the fingers of his free hand squeezed the other roughly. "Yeah. Maybe I oughta just leave ya by yourself to fend off all the big bad cons looking to get a piece of ya."

The shank fell away and Bagwell stood, grinning with something like morbid curiosity playing at his features.

"Because I certainly ain't gonna look out for someone who's so . . . inconsiderate."

Bellick squeezed his eyes shut. His head hurt and he didn't want to think at all about what was going to happen after this. There was going to be an even bigger target on his back now, attracting even more cons than he'd ever be able to beat back without help.

It was a bad situation he was in and steadily growing worse as the days rolled by. He wouldn't make it another week at this rate.

Bagwell was crouching next to him, a hand playfully pulling his head closer to Bagwell's mouth so the man could whisper in his ear.

"What do ya say, Brad?" His voice was silky, seductive,_pleasing_. Nothing remained of the menacing, threatening tone he'd carried earlier. In its stead, undeniable arrogance had filled its place.

Bellick opened his eyes and reached his hand over, grasping the slightly bloodied fabric between his fingers, resigned to his fate.

"That's a good boy," Bagwell purred into his ear appreciatively. "Now how 'bout we go and get acquainted, hm?"


End file.
